


Something Makes My Chest Stir

by tjstar



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Asthma, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lead singer’s hiding something from the band, and Pete’s sure, because he knows Patrick too fucking well. Patrick can’t keep his own secrets and loses his temper because of it.<br/>But maybe Pete’s too paranoid to think straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Makes My Chest Stir

Pete always knows if there’s something wrong with Patrick; he can feel it with his intuition, or maybe this is some kind of soulmate mark. He just lives with it, but sometimes this uneasy feeling becomes stronger.

Before the concert, an atmosphere in the dressing room is very tense, and Pete tries to figure out what’s happening. He makes his way to Patrick, who sits on the windowsill and stares at his laptop.

“Are you okay?” Pete blurts out. “Be careful,” he warns, just in case. Patrick rolls his eyes and nods crossly like ‘yes, mom’.

“I’m fine,” Patrick responds quickly, but he’s nervous more than usual, and this indicates he’s not ‘fine’ despite his words. The lead singer’s hiding something from the band, and Pete’s sure, because he knows Patrick too fucking well. Patrick can’t keep his own secrets and loses his temper because of it.

But maybe Pete’s too paranoid to think straight. More than that, it looks like Joe and Andy don’t notice anything; in the opposite corner of the room, they’re discussing about ‘how much the soundcheck sucks’. So maybe there is nothing suspicious, and there’s a chance that it all will be okay. Hopefully.

Four of them can hear the screams of the crowd, so, it’s time to go onstage.

The show goes great (honestly, it’s _great_ only for the audience; for the band it’s just _not that awful_ , but who the fuck cares). They play loudly and even angrily, because Fall Out Boy is _a young band with a good potential_ , but critics don’t like them already. Yeah, maybe a half of the band is too young and inexperienced, but journalists should just shut up when Patrick sings.

 _‘He is a national treasure,’_ Pete thinks every time when he hears his own lyrics mixed with Patrick’s music. It’s like a perfect harmony, and he can feel wings behind his back.

This time, the club is not so small, and the crowd is really crazy, and this remotely resembles the real rock-star’s life. High notes, too much bass, hard drumbeat and guitar riffs, and it’s their almost best show.

But Pete can’t get rid of the anxiety, and yeah, now he’s scared. He looks at Patrick; the lead singer plays wrong chords in his guitar part and smiles guiltily. Pete knows how Patrick curses himself for every small mistake. Well, they’re the band, they will cover each other, that’s how the friendship works.

“Thanks, guys! It… was… awesome,” Patrick says into the microphone, gasping between the words. He breathes too loud and too hoarsely, fighting with the guitar strap like it puts a pressure on him. He’s extremely pale, and he obviously starts to choke.

“Yeah, it was so fucking cool!” Pete agrees, unable to tear his eyes away from Patrick.

Joe reads the signs, looking at Pete, and the bass-player nods silently. He guesses what’s wrong, and it means they need to leave the stage right the fuck now or they will have to deal with Patrick’s unconscious body.

After an awkward final speech, they rush at the backstage before it’s too late.

 

***

Patrick hates attracting someone’s attention, but he’s sure — his bandmates know everything about him, and it’s a big problem.

Patrick doesn’t want to ruin the band. But he can’t breathe in his regular rhythm.

“Where’s it?” Pete shoves him into the dressing room. “Trick, can you hear me? Where’s your inhaler?” he sounds terrified.

Patrick leans his back against the wall, sliding on the floor slowly. He shrugs and presses his palm to his chest; of course, he has an inhaler, but he doesn’t use it too often, so he simply can’t remember where it is.

“My b-bag,” Patrick manages to say before he starts coughing violently, and it pushes the remains of air out of his lungs. He sits in the corner and breathes rapidly and shallow, trying not to move.

Pete searches frantically through the contents of their bags; he doesn’t care about the mess he’s making, and he doesn’t care that he rummages in Joe’s backpack instead of Patrick’s. Fucking inhaler can be anywhere.

“I’m gonna call 911,” Andy pulls a cellphone out of the pocket of his jeans. “Fuck! There’s no signal!”

“Wait,” Patrick’s voice cracks, and he coughs again; he inhales through his nose in attempts to get as much oxygen as possible. His head hurts, rapid breathing tortures his lungs, and he slowly starts to lose consciousness.

How long can he stay like this? Ten minutes maybe?

“Joe!” Pete almost yells. “Go to our van and look for the inhaler. Andy! Go find someone: nurse, paramedics… I don’t know!” he throws Patrick’s /already empty/ bag across the room.

Patrick isn’t sure if the nurse will help him; he needs that spray in his inhaler, and he curses himself for his forgetfulness. He fails another attempt to endure the tightness in his chest and closes his eyes.

“PATRICK!” Joe shakes Patrick’s shoulder, forcing him to respond.

“M-m?” Patrick moans chokingly. Yeah, his asthma is a bitch. Three months without attacks, and Patrick used to breathe like normal people do.

He hears how Joe and Andy leave the dressing room, slamming the door shut hysterically. Pete’s worried voice sounds like from another dimension.

“Dude, don’t you dare to pass out! Trick, stay awake!” Pete calls him, and Patrick winces — he doesn’t like this nickname, and he doesn’t even know why.

Something falls and breaks with a loud sound. Who cares? There’s no air anymore, and Patrick’s lungs refuse to work. He can’t find the strength to open his eyes, and he just sighs painfully. This is the worst asthma attack since Patrick was six-year-old.  

“Fuck yeah!” Pete shouts triumphantly. “How to use this crap? Trick, hold on!”

Patrick’s almost unconscious, but suddenly he feels a very familiar plastic tube against his lips. Patrick opens his mouth, Pete presses down on the inhaler, two times, and Patrick tries to breathe slowly, letting the medicine reach deep into his lungs. Instead, he inhales sharply, but it’s working; Pete just literally saved his life. He’s dizzy, but he’s okay.

Counting to five, Patrick holds his breath, but Pete slaps him immediately, and Patrick exhales loudly but without wheezing.

“Hey?” Pete brings his hand up again.

“Stop it,” Patrick hisses, adjusting his glasses. “I can breathe… Now.”

Pete continues to panic, but he notices that Patrick’s lips turn pink again; he doesn’t look unhealthily pale — just tired.

“Are you going to faint again?” Pete asks, trying to look into Patrick’s eyes.

“It wasn’t a faint, okay?” Patrick replies, taking a more comfortable position. “It’s just… Welcome to my life,” he sighs, staring at the broken vase.

Pete hates Patrick’s asthma, and these fifteen minutes were the worst in his life. He wraps his hand around Patrick’s shoulders and rests his head in the crook of Patrick’s neck.

Patrick chuckles softly and hugs Pete tightly.

“Where did you find my inhaler?” Patrick breaks the silence with this question.

“In my bag,” Pete answers. “You have to move into my house to stop losing your things,” he jokes.

“I’ll think about it, but… Thank you, really,” Patrick finally realizes he’s alive. “I’m the most horrible singer,” he laughs bitterly.

“You’re an amazing singer, Trick. And you would be a great boyfriend for me,” Pete says with a puppy eyes.

“Oh yeah, and Fall Out Boy will be our family business,” Patrick snaps his fingers.

They’re sitting on the floor and hugging each other, and they want to spend the night right here, in the room with shitty design. But the van is waiting, and footsteps from behind the door mean that Joe or Andy or someone else will be there soon.

Actually, both of them.

Crossing the dressing room, Joe and Andy are hurrying to Patrick and Pete; Joe grabs Patrick by the collar of his t-shirt and lifts him up, on his feet, hugging and apologizing.

“Sorry, there are no paramedics in this fucking club, and your inhaler…” guitarist can’t control the stream of his words.

“Don’t worry, guys,” Patrick responds; Pete stands next to him, holding his hand.

“He’s okay,” Pete joins the conversation with a proud tone. “Patrick is my boyfriend now,” he adds, teasing.

Andy pats Patrick’s shoulder. “Well, let’s pack our bags and go take our instruments?”

Exchanging glances, the band in full force heads toward the door. It’s all fine now, but Pete, Andy and Joe decide that Patrick doesn’t drive the van tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> my usual warning: i don't speak english  
> \----  
> it's kinda based on my 'that band needs therapy' fic


End file.
